ZERO PARADES
field manual
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The script
1,293
There's an old shrine concealed beneath this growth...
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There's nothing to do here anymore.
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83
There's nothing to do here.
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These babies at max volume would blow the houseboat clear out of the water.
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These floor cups are full of... piss.
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They must have assembled the pipes here.
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They never got around to putting up the new wallpaper.
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They say that, once, a whole tribe stumbled upon the valley during their winter migration, and they became enamoured with those plants --…
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They should install an elevator.
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They're gone.
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Thick cables -- an addition. Their outer sheath screams 'high voltage'.
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Thin plates of metal buckle and wurble with the wind.
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Think, operant. If you were you, what would you get up to?
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This cat's furniture is nicer than yours.
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This complex stretches as far under the hillside as it does over it.
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This elevator goes straight to the roof.
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This is a template thought flow, the content is not set yet.
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This is kind of beautiful.
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This is the door you came in from. Muffled voices rise from the shop below.
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This is what remains of the Portofiro's bright futurist mania.
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This keeps nothing in nor out.
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This line of work can be nothing but songs you sing to yourself between curtain calls.
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This lock looks pickable.
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This looks almost new.
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This looks recent.
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This must be the collapsed awning over the main entrance.
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This noticeboard is covered in wet paper.
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This place is not as you left it. The world moved on behind your back.
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15
This sign used to have a name on it, before the years smeared it away.
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This stony face... does not ring a bell.
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This tank's not fuel. It's liquid oxygen.
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This tuk-tuk has been parked for some time.
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This was originally a photo developing lab, but you may twist it to suit your needs.
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Three engineers clustered on the viewing platform, staring into the depths below.
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Three postboxes, all of them missing the occupant's names.
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Three posters stare back at you from the wall. A watchful triad, ready to creep into your midnight's hour.
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Through the cracked drawer, you can see the cabinet is mostly empty.
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Tickets for a losing match, torn to shreds.
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Tightly-wound rolls of paper, begging to be unravelled.
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Tiny creatures peer from plastic capsules, their freedom left to chance.
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Tiny diodes scattered across the bedside table's surface, abandoned mid-project.
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Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.
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Tiny prison bars.
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Tiny rusted switches, their labels worn off.
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Too many pipes to keep track of, serpentine, cold.
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Too small for a guard dog.
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Tools. Weapons. Watch out.
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Trash, washed up here from a thousand miles away.
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Treasure for a kid. Alas...
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Trembling in her seat. Her eyes won't meet yours.
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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 23 of 26